


Define Happiness

by WitchBites (ReillyBites)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Immortality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Be Careful What You Wish For, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Getting Together, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Prompt Fic, Tags May Change, vague wish granting entities, very lightly referenced self harm ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29351241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReillyBites/pseuds/WitchBites
Summary: Jaskier can admit to being a selfish creature, to be the kind of person to wish for those things in the heat of the moment, but he also knows himself well enough to know that none of those things are what he truly wants.What he wants, well…“I wish for Geralt of Rivia to find his happiness and to never lose it for as long he lives.”~~~*~~~Or: A magical creature grants Jaskier one wish, and Jaskier decides to ask for Geralt to be happy. The creature fulfills Jaskier’s wish, by making the bard immortal.(Prompt by darkverrmin)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 169
Kudos: 632





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this kinda ran away from me so im gonna break it up a bit but! @darkverrmin this idea was too good not to write about! it turned out angstier than i intended but it will end fluffy as fuck i swear.  
> (cross posted from my [tumblr](https://witchbites.tumblr.com/tagged/witchwrites))  
> 

Jaskier is rather surprised by how firmly he made up his mind when the words leave his mouth.

After the whole Djinn episode, he was less inclined to blurt his first desire the moment he was offered a wish. As much as he’d like to be rid of the indignity of Valdo Marx’s company ever again in his life, the weasel wasn’t actually worth a _wish_ if he actually thought about it for more than two seconds.

He looked at the- the _being_ in front of him with a focus he wasn’t expecting. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up in this position, with some otherworldly being in his debt. Or he assumes it's a debt. He's honestly unsure, it was like he blinked and it was there offering him his greatest desire. Perhaps he stepped into a fairy ring without realizing, it wouldn't be the first time he got himself into an odd situation. It hasn't tried to attack him yet, though, so points in its favor.

Jaskier found it incredibly difficult not to stare at the thing, and he wondered if that was the point. He couldn't define it's shape, it's anything really. Just the scent of fresh grass and pollen and... Something. The more he tried to understand what it was, the more lost in its presence he got. It had an ethereal air about it, like it was an envoy of destiny herself.

Geralt would probably tell him that was utter horseshit.

 _Geralt_.

There’s an ache in his chest at the thought of the man, like some burning thing reached in and squeezed his heart. It hasn’t even been a week since he looked into the molten gold of the Witcher’s eyes, so filled with vitriol and fury that would have any other man crawling out of his skin in terror. Jaskier, ever the contrarian, could only feel the pain of his heart shattering. Could only feel _shock_ and _grief_.

He could wish to mend his heart, for Geralt to come back to him and to love him like Jaskier dared fantasized in the dead of night.

He could wish to forget about Geralt entirely, to start his life anew without the weight of what the last two decades truly _meant_ to him.

And Jaskier can admit to being a selfish creature, to be the kind of person to wish for those things in the heat of the moment, but he also knows himself well enough to know that none of those things are what he truly _wants._

What he wants, well…

“I wish for Geralt of Rivia to find his happiness and to never lose it for as long he lives.”

Jaskier’s smile is sad, rueful. He truly is a dramatic fool, isn’t he?

The being cocks its- their? He hasn’t really given much thought to the pronouns of whatever this is- head. There’s silence for an agonizing moment before Jaskier hears _giggling_ of all things. It sounds like bells echoing in a cathedral, with the same unearthly resonance as when it asked it’s initial question.

“Then it shall be.” The voice has such mirth in it, like it’s privy to the best joke in the room.

Jaskier blinks and he’s alone again. The forest is filled with life, birds chirping to each other and small animals scurrying off in the brush, it’s like he dreamed the last couple of minutes. He shakes his head, not entirely convinced he didn’t, and continues walking towards the next town. He’s still trying to put as much distance between him and that damned mountain, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tag updates! I don't plan for this to be uber graphic or bloody but they do still live in a dangerous environment.

Jaskier has found that the problem with building his fame on the back of the man who broke his heart is that people won’t stop talking to him about the man. 

Originally, he intended to continue traveling the continent on his own because he is a _traveling_ bard and is perfectly capable of taking care of himself without a scowling guardian over his shoulder. He’s traveled by his lonesome before, in the months and even year long gaps between accompanying Geralt, and he can do it again.

Jaskier doesn’t _need_ him, or so he’s stubbornly trying to convince himself. 

His resolve wanes with each White Wolf song request.

Not that he can fully blame people. It’s what Jaskier the Master Bard is known for, and he’ll admit that spending the first couple of months debuting _Her Sweet Kiss_ doesn’t exactly help his case. 

Furthermore, the songs he chooses himself have all taken a rather maudlin turn. People would rather hear the tales of heroics over his self-indulgent wallowing, it seems.

 _‘Well,_ ’ He thinks to himself when he allows himself to be petulant, _‘if people could stop reminding me about him every day, I could stop wallowing and move on already.’  
_

Jaskier holds out for approximately six months, a feat that he’s actually a touch impressed with, before he decides he’s finally sung _Toss a Coin_ one too many times and heads to Oxenfurt. At least he has no obligation to take song requests as a professor. 

Besides, the chill of winter is starting to set in.

For a half second he wonders if Geralt has gotten to the mythic Kaer Morhen for the season yet, then he immediately banishes the thought.

There’s a caravan that travels between White Bridge and Oxenfurt that he plans on hitching a ride on, so he makes his way from the no name Temerian settlement towards proper civilization. He isn’t terribly worried about having to rough it for a little bit, having spent majority of his solo excursion drifting between taverns and inns and the occasional brothel, it’s more been a matter of preference. A night or two of camping won’t kill him. 

Later, when he’s at knife point in the dead of night, he has a distant thought that he should really stop making such damning statements to himself. 

“I don’t suppose this is just a criticism of my choice of song, I could play something else?” Jaskier says with a shaky smile, his hands up in the air in surrender. His eyes are switching between the two bandits at a rapid pace. “Are you not a fan of ballads? Perhaps a drinking song or even a shanty-”

The larger man actively threatening him snarls and suddenly the blade is pressed up against Jaskier’s throat. He will deny the whimper that escapes him at the feel of cold steel against his skin until his dying breath, however soon that seems to be in this moment. 

The man growls out a command to stay quiet _or else._ Were Jaskier not an infraction away from having his precious vocal chords sliced into, he’d comment about how commonplace and uninspired a threat that is.

Jaskier had every intention to let the men take what they needed and leave him in peace, really. He could easily make up whatever coin they stole once he got to White Bridge, and he could survive a day of foraging for food. He’d been in this area before, knew what was edible because he _did_ actually pay attention whenever Geralt-

Then the other, slightly smaller but still intimidating, man made to grab the lute from his hand and he just _couldn’t_ let him take it. It’s so stupid, he’s a Master Bard for fuck’s sake he could easily get a new lute that would work just as well but...

Well, it’s _his_ lute. A gift from the _King of Elves._ That isn’t something he’s going to just stumble across a second time, no matter how convoluted his luck. 

More than that though, the instrument held the memory of his first adventure with Geralt, of their fateful meeting in Posada twenty some-odd years ago. It changed the course of his life irrevocably. He poured his heart and soul into every sound he plucked out of it. He is almost positive his blood, sweat, and tears have infused into the wood at this point. It had been at his side for as long as he was by Geralt’s and to lose that last reminder, well. 

Jaskier is suddenly positive he won’t survive the second heartbreak. 

With a speed he would never expect from himself, and to the surprise of the man holding the dagger to his throat, Jaskier ducks backward away from the blade and kicks the larger man away from him in one swift movement. 

He doesn’t give himself time to process what just happened with the adrenaline high coursing through his veins. His arm seems to move without much input from his conscious mind and he grabs a sizable rock that on a normal day he probably would’ve just tripped over and forgot about. He blinks and suddenly the smaller of the two bandits is on the ground, Jaskier’s hand gripping the rock for dear life and fingers throbbing with what he assumes is impact. 

He doesn’t stare at the man beneath him for long because now is when the other bandit seems to recover from his initial shock. There’s a roar behind him and something in Jaskier has the sense of mind to _move_. There’s a moment where Jaskier can feel the cold kiss of metal against the back of his neck and over his shoulder blade but he’s moving before he can think about it. 

This time he manages to blink half a second after watching the rock in his hand connecting with the other man’s temple. Then, suddenly, there’s stillness. There’s only the sound of the crackling fire and Jaskier’s ragged breath inhaling the sharp air. His heart is hammering in his throat and suddenly he is _exhausted._

He checks the men to make sure that they’re both alive and not about to get up any time soon. At the sight of their breathing, Jaskier relaxes just a bit, glad he doesn’t have to unpack accidental murder on top of whatever just happened. 

Maybe watching Geralt so much has ingrained some self preservation instincts into his head after all? That, or he is just incredibly lucky. His eyes fall to the dagger by the unconscious men. Right, he got stabbed, he should address that. He can’t really feel it, but that’s probably just shock. 

Jaskier raises a tentative hand to the back of his neck, taking care to keep his touch gentle. His ginger movements pause when he realizes his hand comes back completely dry, not a speck of blood to be found. He presses a bit harder and sweeps his hand over his shoulder a bit more thoroughly, but finds the skin entirely unmarred. His doublet and chemise are definitely torn through, to his dismay, but he can’t find a wound. 

He blinks down back to the knife and upon a slightly closer inspection, it’s clean as can be. 

Jaskier looks down at the sleeves of the stiff red garment. Perhaps he was wearing enough layers to protect himself, like an incredibly flimsy armor that had been just enough to protect him. For a moment, Jaskier allows himself to be smug. _‘Ha!’_ He thinks, _‘Not so useless after all.’_

Whether he means his clothing or himself, he doesn’t dwell on. 

He quickly packs his things and, after a moment of deliberation, leaves a small package of coin and food for the unconscious men. They probably aren’t doing well for themselves to be going after seemingly helpless bards in the middle of the woods, but that’s about as much as his goodwill extends. 

Jaskier takes one last look at the scene, a half formed question in his mind that he doesn’t know how to address- so he puts it out of his mind. He turns and walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho boy this chapter had to be dragged out of me for some reason but here it is!  
> Warning for some veeery light self harm thoughts and mention, nothing too serious but I'd rather err on the safe side

Jaskier makes it to Oxenfurt without further incident and proceeds to throw himself into his work. Mostly. He’s doing much better in the halls of academia than he was out in random backwater towns. Really.

For one thing he can allow himself to get blind drunk here.

Or he _tries_ to at least.

As a rule he doesn’t really allow himself to get truly wasted when by himself in random taverns across the continent, that’s just asking to get mugged or worse. Now, in one of his old haunts surrounded by colleagues and friends who he trusts- minus Valdo but the sod left as soon as everyone started singing along to _Jaskier’s_ songs, so even better- he can finally give himself permission to let loose and _properly_ grieve his sad, pathetic, pining youth.

Except he’s about six cups in at this point and he’s barely buzzed.

He doesn’t get it, he’s drinking _Dwarven Spirit_ for Melitele’s sake. He went for the strongest stuff behind the bar, to get sloshed as quickly as possible, and it’s _not working_. He’d accuse the tavern keeper of watering it down, or something, but it definitely tastes and feels like it should dissolve his innards, and looking at how his companions who have had only one drink from the same bottle are properly pissed, he doesn’t think the accusation would hold very well.

He can try harder and drink even more, but for one thing he’s not made of money and for another he’s fairly certain that would count as trying to poison himself at this point.

Frustrated, Jaskier excuses himself and heads back to his rooms. He’s just bringing the mood down and as much as he intended to continue his wallowing that night, he refuses to suffer through it sober. 

Has he built some sort of insane tolerance? Has Geralt been secretly dosing him with White Gull every time they went drinking for... some reason that justifies him wasting his precious potion base?

He can’t wrap his head around it, and he’s usually quite good at coming up with incredibly convincing explanations for himself.

He’s crossing a bridge when the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand. There’s a feeling that crawls up his spine and he can’t quite place it, like a type of anxiety.

Suddenly, there’s a thundering of hooves and, without looking, Jaskier jumps to the side of the narrow bridge. In an instant, there’s an _extremely_ large horse barreling right past his nose. He doesn’t have the mind to curse whatever asshole is racing through the streets in the dead of night on a fucking beast of an animal, the shock of it all is causing him to overbalance over the edge.

There’s a half a second where panic begins to build in his chest, and then things seem to slow. There’s a sudden pressure against his limbs, and, like back in the forest with the bandits, they move without input from Jaskier himself. His arms reach behind him and his back curves to follow, in a way that he’s certain would break his spine under nirmal circumstances. His hands grip the edge of the bridge, the stone biting into his palms, and his legs follow the momentum in one fluid motion.

Jaskier finds himself looking down the river the bridge spans over from an upside down point of view. It’s depths seem dark and murky in the blanket of night, and he can hear its rushing, loud and clear. Or perhaps that’s the blood rushing to his ears. He’s balancing entirely on his hands and he breathes. Suddenly, his heart feels like it’s in his throat.

Carefully, with far more grace than he would _ever_ think possible of himself, he lowers his feet back onto the bridge and rights himself.

He stares down at his palms in pure shock. There is some gravel embedded into his palm, but there’s no sting or ache or _anything_ when he brushes them off. His hands aren’t even red.

He stands there for what feels like hours, but in reality is most likely a matter of minutes, before his shakes himself out of his revelry and hurries back to his quarters.

Jaskier’s mind begins to race, as if all the thoughts that vacated him in the moment come slamming back into his head all at once.

Clearly _something_ has happened to him, but he hasn’t the faintest clue what. He should be grievously injured, if not trampled then surely swept away by an angry river by now. What if he _had_ managed to get drunk and was too inebriated to do-? Well, he doesn’t know what he just did.

Jaskier thinks highly of himself in most cases, but is well aware that in terms of fitness and general constitution he’s just an average man. Maybe a bit above average, his calves are in great shape from walking so much and he has a good amount of muscle in his shoulders from carrying his things across the continent because gods forbid Roach be burdened more than absolutely necessary; he’s _fit_ but he knows his reflexes and balance aren’t _that_ great.

He could maybe chalk it up to adrenaline, again, but he felt so _calm_ in the moment, and adrenaline doesn’t keep him sober. That was-

That was some Witcher bullshit.

~~~

Jaskier doesn’t know where to even begin looking into his situation, and after a night of panicking, decides to investigate things himself at the Oxefurt library in between working his actual job. His options are rather limited, he can’t exactly ask a mage (he’s had _quite enough_ sorcerer intervention in his life) or a Witcher (There’s not a flying chance in any possible realm where he goes crawling back to Geralt and he hasn’t the faintest clue where any other Witcher is) so studying dusty old books is his best bet for the moment.

Months seem to fly by and suddenly the winter term has ended, and Jaskier finds himself nowhere closer to answer. He hasn’t made much of a dent in his investigations, to be fair. He can’t really afford to lose himself in an obsessive research frenzy, teaching university students _is_ a full time job after all, so it’s with a sigh that Jaskier chooses to stay for the spring term and will probably agree to stay the rest of the year.

His superiors are delighted, and, while that does give him an ego boost, he can’t quite help but feel a pang of something that hurts. Now is when he would meet up with Geralt, when the snow begins to melt and the great White Wolf descends from his keep in the mountains. He’s hit with the thought that he won’t have that again, and, instead of anger at being reminded of the Witcher, he simply feels a horrible resonating ache deep in his chest.

It seems whatever bewitchment he’s under doesn’t extend to emotional pain.

That’s what makes Jaskier think this is all some sort of very cruel joke. He hasn’t physically been hurt in _months_. Anytime he finds himself about to be caused some sort of damage, something stops it from happening.

He doesn’t know how to explain it, it’s like his body gets _possessed_ in moments he’s in any sort of danger. He twirls away from being accidentally hit, stabbed, burned, _anything_ with a grace he cannot reproduce in a safe environment. He hasn’t so much as _tripped,_ not even a fucking paper cut _.  
_

Once, in a bit of a mad fit, he tries to bite his lip hard enough to try and break skin. He could still feel the pressure of his teeth against his skin, feel the familiar tingle of contact, but, try as he might, it's like he's biting into rubber.

He can try and test the limits of whatever this is, but that feels far darker than he's willing to go. Besides, he really doesn’t want to see if he’ll be disappointed when it doesn’t work.

So the months drag on, seasons turn, with Jaskier horribly present in his own mind and aware that every ache and pain he feels is the result of a broken heart.

It isn’t _fair._ He can try and distract himself with lesson plans, with his fruitless research, with temporary company even, but at the end of the day he is left with an ever growing chasm opening his rib cage.

He muses how easy it is to build his wallowing on the back of his frustration.

“How is it that your work has gotten _more_ insufferably mawkish than when you arrived last year?”

Jaskier scowls upon hearing the absolutely _grating_ voice. “It’s still better than anything you’ve come up with, _Marx_.”

He turns to see the man standing in the center of Jaskier’s room, and Jaskier really needs to remember to lock the godsdamned door. He stands with his usual air of undeserved self importance, doing his best to look down his nose at Jaskier despite Valdo being shorter by a couple of inches. “What could you possibly want to warrant a very unwanted house visit? Are you having some sort of crisis? If so, you’ve come to the wrong place and I must question your judgement skills.”

“Look, we all expected the pity parade when you got here, with your tail between your legs after your little Witcher inevitably got sick of you-” The insufferable twat seems to completely ignore the way Jaskier’s hackles raise, “- but I for one think enough is enough! If I have to listen to you warble about your shattered heart, or whatever, at the upcoming competition, I’m going to cut my ears off.”

“Somehow, I think that’ll _help_ your singing,” Jaskier spits out. Valdo just rolls his eyes. To be honest, Jaskier has barely thought about the upcoming bardic competition, far too concerned with his own predicaments. Is it already Yule?

He steps closer and Jaskier takes an instinctual step back. He’s right up against the open window now, his desk littered with papers next to him. He’s not a fan of how boxed in he feels. “Did you come here to try and cheer me up? If so, then your judgement abilities are far worse than I thought, because you are the absolute last person capable of doing that. Consider going to a healer, there may be worms involved.”

“Julien, please, you know me better than that-” Melitele’s tits, he has such a slimy smile. “I simply come to you as a concerned colleague. You’ve clearly worked yourself into a state, I’d hate to see you burn yourself out over a silly little competition, and we both know how close you are to breaking,” Valdo’s tone is so saturated with false pity, Jaskier is certain he’ll choke on it.

Valdo takes another step into his space and Jaskier narrows his eyes at him. “And what, exactly, are you suggesting?” His voice is steely and level, completely positive that he’s about to hear some utter horseshit.

“I’m _suggesting_ that this year you consider taking a break from such a measly event and focus on centering yourself a bit more, you clearly need the time.” Jaskier makes an affronted noise but Valdo carries on. “I come to you out of goodwill, really, anyone can see how difficult the last year has been to you.”

Valdo’s eyes wander down to Jaskier’s desk, and his hand reaches for an open notebook sitting atop various miscellaneous pieces of parchment. The notebook that contains Jaskier’s prose and compositions. “Besides it’s not like-”

The second his fingers creep onto the pages, Jaskier snatches it away. Or he attempts to, for Valdo is quick to grasp onto it. “You utter _snake!_ This is such an obvious ploy for sabotage and to take my work _again_ that it’s downright _shameful!_ What in the actual hell is wrong with-!“ Jaskier’s words dissolve into sounds of struggle and swears as he tries to wrestle the book out of Valdo’s hands.

Jaskier has half a mind to just bite the fucker because if they’re going to act like they’re in a school yard instead of the actual fucking adults they are, then Jaskier has no qualms about fighting dirty. But then, Valdo has the _gall_ to put his _foot_ on Jaskier’s chest and Jaskier has never been more incensed.

Finally, Jaskier manages to rip the book out of Valdo’s hands and for a moment he feels smug victory. It’s incredibly short lived, as the momentum causes Valdo to kick Jaskier fully _out the fucking window._

In his moment, and eternity, of weightlessness, Jaskier thinks that this is it. There’s no way for him to catch himself here. He’s going to meet the stone of the street and at the very least break something if he doesn't crack his head open, and it’s going to hurt _horribly_. There is no way that whatever force has been protecting him can save him from this, his luck has certainly run out. 

Maybe he’ll be lucky and pass out quickly.

Jaskier shuts his eyes in anticipation for impact, tries to brace as much as he’s able. Faintly, he hears himself screaming.

There’s a grunt of surprise and Jaskier gasps. He feels himself land on the- Well. Actually, not on the ground, he feels a distinct lack of rocks against his back and pain in his body. Belatedly, he realizes he’s in someone’s arms.

“I’ve found you,” Says a deep, rumbling, voice, and if Jaskier weren’t nearly positive of who it’s owner was he would say it was filled with awe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whos gonna show his face next chapter, finally


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we interrupt ur regularly scheduled immortality related freakouts for EmOtIoNs

Jaskier doesn’t want to open his eyes because this, quite simply, _cannot_ be happening. He’s clearly hit his head and is now in an elaborate fever dream, hallucination- _something._

His imagination is active enough, he can fabricate the solid, thick, arms cradling him against an equally solid, thick, chest. He’s more than capable of making up the heat radiating off the other body and shielding him from the cold biting at his extremities, the way studs of the armor press into his skin that certainly will _not_ leave imprints on his skin because this is _not_ happening. 

“ _Jaskier.”_ The timbre rolls into Jaskier’s body and reverberates through his bones the way only one man’s voice can. “I’ve been looking for you.” It’s so familiar that it feels like a home he’s been longing for, and suddenly this is far too tortuous in its detail for Jaskier to dream up. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s met with liquid gold. It’s like catching a glimpse of the sun in his eyes, so intense and filled with power that it’s hard for most people to look at. Of course, it’s of no surprise that Jaskier is the idiot that will happily go blind staring into them. 

Now, though, his gaze is closer to the glow of warm lantern light. It’s something soft and sweet. 

Most bewildering of all, which furthers Jaskier’s theory that he’s actually delirious, is that Geralt of Rivia is _smiling_. At him. With teeth and everything, and it doesn’t remotely look like it’s a twitch away from a snarl like 95% of his smiles are. If anything he looks relieved, and Jaskier tries to remember when he’s ever made such an expression on his face, if ever, or if his imagination really is just that good. 

There is one time that comes to mind, after he’d been cured of his Djinn-induced curse. Geralt had been so relieved that Jaskier hadn’t choked on his own blood, he looked similar to now. Then he-

Then he immediately ran into the arms of a certain sorceress who shall not be named. Then he made a choice that he blamed the bard for, last they spoke.

Jaskier scowls. 

“A terrible hardship on your part, I’m sure, now _put me down_.” Jaskier effectively squirms out of the Witcher’s arms. He doesn’t spare the brute a second glance as he stomps back into the building. He has better things to concern himself over than the swell of emotions building in his chest. 

Like confronting a certain weasel-faced disgrace to bardom, now that was well within his wheel house at the moment, a far easier task. 

“ _Did you just push me out of a fucking window!?”_ Jaskier all but screeches when he enters the room, his arrival announced by the bang of his door slamming open. Valdo, who, apparently, was looking through the student papers strewn about Jaskier’s desk, jumps. “Do you _actually_ have fucking worms in your brain, you maggot of a man, what in the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Valdo, for his part, manages to look a _little_ sheepish but clearly not apologetic enough for Jaskier’s tastes. He opens his mouth to speak but Jaskier cuts him off.

“Oh I do _not_ want to hear whatever pitiful excuse you manage to come up with! It’ll probably be pathetic and trite, like every other word that shits itself out of your slimy excuse for a mouth!” Jaskier is aware that his voice has taken a shrill tone, but he’s absolutely _seething_ and the man deserves it. “Have you stooped so low that you need to attempt to _kill me_? Over what, a stupid competition that happens every gods damned year? What, did you get tired of the people barely tolerating your paltry excuse for music?

“You know, normally, I’d be rubbing it in that you find me such a threat that you need to resort to _physical violence_ but right now I am _not_ in the mood to suffer through your waste of an existence, you _horse’s ass._ Get out of my room, I can’t look at your sniveling face anymore.” 

Jaskier is panting, a small part of him surprised by his own outburst- but it _is_ warranted, he thinks. Valdo had been looking increasingly chastised and tries opening his mouth to say something again, but now he pales considerably. For a moment Jaskier feels a bit smug, feeling a bit vindicated, before he realizes that Valdo is looking past him, over his shoulder. 

Jaskier scowls again as Valdo skitters out of the room like the rat he is. He is left with his back to a large presence. For a split second he wonders if he should’ve wished Valdo dead after all, in that dream of his a year ago. Certainly could’ve avoided whatever the hell this is. 

Silence stretches over the room and he wonders if it’s possible to suffocate on it. 

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks with a flat voice. His back is still turned. 

“Jask, I-” Geralt seems to hesitate, perhaps he notices that the familiarity of the nickname causes Jaskier to bristle ever so slightly. “Jaskier, please look at me?” 

It might be the pleading tint to his voice, or the emotional storm he’s unwittingly stepped himself into, but Jaskier is suddenly tired. Stiffly, he turns around and faces the larger man, face as hardened as he can make it. He refuses to show weakness, not now and not here. 

Geralt looks haggard, and tired, and _sad._ Jaskier forces the lump in his throat down, violently, not wanting to bend to the Witcher’s slightest whims, to try his hardest to put some semblance of a smile on the grump’s face. Again. He has more respect for himself than that, he tells himself. 

He crosses his arms. “Well, out with it, then. Don’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary, what could you possibly need from me?” 

Geralt furrows his eyebrows, and looks a bit lost. Jaskier feels the corner of his lip twitch up into a bitter smile. “Life’s one blessing, right? I’m doing you a favor as I’m sure this interaction must pain you so. So. Whatever brought you here, spit it out, so I can once again take myself off your hands.”

Geralt looks stricken, like Jaskier’s words themself have landed a devastating blow and- and _good_. Serves the bastard right, Jaskier’s allowed some pettiness after everything. 

Geralt turns his head to look down at his side, a desperate look on his face. It’s then that Jaskier notices that the two of them aren’t alone in the room. 

There’s a child standing next to Geralt, dressed like a common boy barely in their teenage years. The cap hides the fair hair rather well and if the child didn’t look up at Geralt, like they do at the moment, Jaskier wouldn’t have recognized them. As it stands, Jaskier knows those emerald eyes rather well, and years of preforming for the lion cub’s birthdays every year grants him recognition of the princess’s delicate features.

She still stands proud, and looks at Geralt with an insistent look that brokers no negotiation. She places a hand on his arm, one that reads of reassurance. 

Geralt takes a steadying breath and nods to her- or himself maybe, it isn’t really clear- before looking back at Jaskier. “Jaskier, I’ve come to- to apologize.”

Jaskier doesn’t really comprehend what Geralt is saying. He’s looking at the point of contact and in his staring, he huffs out a quiet- if hysterical- laugh. “So you’ve finally found her,” he says quietly to himself. _You’ve found your happiness,_ he thinks to himself. He can’t quite name the emotion he’s feeling now. 

It’s then that Jaskier blinks, Geralt’s words finally registering with him. “Apologize?” 

Geralt nods with a familiar hum. “It’s- Ciri says- I’m-” He tries to start, tripping over his tongue. Ciri squeezes his arm and Geralt takes another breath. “Yes. Apologize. After... After finding Ciri, and ensuring that Yennefer was alright, we decided to look for you. Because I need to apologize to you.” 

“Glad to see where I rank on that list,” Jaskier mutters to himself and he watches Geralt wince, his Witcher hearing catching it loud and clear. 

He looks between the two of them, and he can imagine Cirilla berating Geralt after hearing about what happened on the mountain. He wonders how she learned about it in the first place, though, he doubts the Witcher was particularly eager to recount that story. Geralt, for his part, looks every bit the chided puppy with his tail between his legs. It soothes Jaskier, just a touch. 

Jaskier moves to his desk chair and turns it out. He sits in it, crosses his legs, and folds his arms against his chest once more. He looks every bit the professor who caught his student causing trouble in his class. “Well. Go on, then.”

Geralt looks shocked. “What?”

“Apologize. Let’s hear it.” Jaskier waves his hand at him, motioning for him to continue. “I’m listening.” 

Geralt throws a tentative glance at Ciri, who nods at him, and Geralt takes cautious steps out of the doorway. He stops in front of Jaskier and, to the surprise of the bard, _kneels_ in front of him. His head is bowed and it keeps him from seeing the expression on Jaskier’s face. 

“Two summers ago, I acted on my anger. I was stubborn, refusing to examine my part in the incident with the Djinn, to own up to my responsibility with my Child Surprise. I was heartbroken, and in pain, and I took it out on you. I _hurt_ you to make myself feel better and that’s-” Geralt clenches his jaw and forces an exhale out his nose. He closes his eyes. “You didn’t deserve that. You _don’t_ deserve that. In that moment, I didn’t see you. I saw Destiny trying to force itself down my throat using your shape, again, and I let my fury take over. I am _sorry_. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but-”

Geralt finally looks up at Jaskier, his face etched with remorse and pleading. “I have never truly thought of myself as your friend, but you always have been mine. I need to right that.”

Jaskier can’t look at him anymore, this is simply too much to bear. He stands abruptly, and starts to pace. “I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in one sitting in twenty years. Twenty!” Jaskier exhales and shakes his hands, trying to release the feelings that are creeping into his chest against his better judgement. He looks out the window, down to the spot where he would have met the cobblestone had Geralt not caught him. Jaskier closes the window. 

He twirls back around to face the other man, studies his face for a moment, then continues to pace. “Well, I’m happy you got that off your conscience then. Fatherhood really does change a man, doesn’t it?” He looks over at Ciri without missing a beat. “You’re a wonderful influence on the brute, really, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him acknowledge an emotion before in my life. You’re going to make a poet out of the man in a years time, you should be proud!” His hands are flitting about and he really needs to take a breath.

He pauses and does just that, his eyes on the ceiling. He flicks his tongue out, his lips are really dry all of a sudden. “Right,” He looks back down at them, hands on his hips. Geralt is still on his knee, looking at him with wide eyes. “How long are you planning on staying at Oxenfurt? I can arrange for you two to have private rooms so you’re not accosted by rude tavern keeps until you leave.”

Geralt furrows his eyebrows, confused. Slowly, he stands again. He raises a hand, as though Jaskier is spooked horse or something. “Does this mean... Do you forgive me, then?” He asks carefully. 

Jaskier looks at Geralt, then, searching it. He can read the caution on it, he can read the soft hope in his eyes. His face is so gentle it threatens to break Jaskier’s heart all over again. He closes his eyes and deflates with a sigh, turning away. His arms come up to hold himself, and for a moment he curls into himself and lets the silence drag on. 

“What do you want me to say?” He says finally, his voice soft. “That everything’s okay again? Lets act like nothing happened?” Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s been over a year and a half, and you come out of nowhere with this. You left me on top of a mountain, Geralt. You threw me aside because someone _else_ left you. You bro-” He instantly clamps his mouth shut. That’s far too much of himself to reveal. 

He takes a deep breath and looks up at him again. “You’re right, you did hurt me. I don’t hate you for it, though. I knew that the things you said weren’t what you really felt, but you still said them. I am genuinely glad you found Ciri, and that you seem better for it now, and that apology was beautiful but I don’t- I can’t forgive you, yet.” 

He watches the resignation settle into Geralt’s features, watches him nod with his usual silence. Jaskier casts his gaze down to the stack of papers on his desk, a far less complicated sight. He clears his throat. “Now, if that’s all-”

“Come with us,” Geralt interrupts suddenly and Jaskier whips his head up at that. 

“What?”

“To Kaer Morhen.”

“I just said-“

“If- If not for me, then,” Geralt says, downright _beseeching_. “Then for Ciri. She needs a proper education, a contemporary one that she can’t get from just a couple of Witchers, and you’re the only person I can trust with that. Please.” 

Jaskier can smell the excuse from a mile away, but- he thinks, as he looks over the girl in question- he does have a point. He gives Geralt a bit of a pinched look then fully turns to address Cirilla. “Well?” Her eyebrows raise. “Don’t let the old man make all your decisions for you, what say you?” 

Her expression is perfectly neutral, the picture of innocence, but Jaskier can see the mischievous glint in her eye. She hums in contemplation for exactly two seconds before beaming at him. “I think it’s a great idea, actually. If the other Witchers are just as quiet as Geralt, I think I might go mad, so it would be nice to have you around.”

Jaskier scoffs and Geralt throws her a vaguely annoyed look, but the fondness it betrays is obvious. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, that just isn’t fair. I’ll be leaving the poor girl to the wolves, she’ll lose every single ounce of manners she’s ever known and turn into a feral thing that can only communicate in coordinated hums and grunts.“ 

Ciri giggles and he tries and hold his composure for a good, long, six seconds. He sighs in exasperation and throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine! Fine, I’ll go. For _Ciri.”_ He says pointedly, but Geralt just smiles at him with that soft expression again and Jaskier might be able to trick himself into thinking it fondness. 

He finally excuses himself as if needing to prepare himself for the journey. As if he could _possibly_ prepare himself for being at Geralt’s side again. Surely, the Witcher would be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also just wanna say that all yalls comments are absolutely lovely and they make my day, im genuinely surprised by the reception of this fic! my love goes out to yall <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Would love to hear what yall think in the comments ^^


End file.
